


Endure

by Saber_Wing



Series: The Ties That Bind [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Drama, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Lyrium Addiction, Psychological Trauma, References to Addiction, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29928327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: Max catches Cullen at a vulnerable moment, and ends up in the wrongdoorwayat the wrong time. It's okay, though. He and the box probably had it coming.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor & Cullen Rutherford
Series: The Ties That Bind [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1254914
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Endure

**Author's Note:**

> So, remember that part of Cullen's 'Perseverance' quest when he almost hits the Inquisitor with that box full of lyrium supplies? Take the word 'almost' out of that sentence, and you have this fic. Just me asking, "But what if it _did_ though?" xD. I've kept some of the dialogue, but modified it and the events, and expanded on it. You're welcome.

Maxwell Trevelyan had been hit in the face before.

He’d been hit with many things. Swords, shields, daggers, maces. The odd bit of shrapnel, or an errant jet of flame. He’d been stabbed. Frozen. Shot. Poisoned. Punched. Dragged—as Bull would put it—through the ass end of demon town.

Many of those had, quite literally, slapped him in the face. Max had the scars to prove it.

He had not, however, been hit in the face with a flying hunk of wood _._ Not without that being a euphemism for something markedly more fun, anyway.

Until now.

In hindsight, it was probably more Max’s fault than Cullen’s. He’d already known the commander was upset, and what had he done?

Gone straight to his office. Traipsed up the steps. Barged in without knocking.

…and jerked back as something hard and blunt slammed into his jaw, with enough force to knock his head into the wall. As it was, he managed to catch himself, planting a hand on the stone just in time to save his other cheek from a bludgeoning.

After a long moment, Max reached up, gingerly cradling the side of his face.

_“Ow,”_ he uttered, clearly and emphatically.

“Maker’s breath. I didn’t hear you enter!” Cullen was clearly mortified. He practically fell over the desk coming to Max’s aid.

Something had cut him. A box of some sort, with sharp enough corners to hurt. He could tell it wasn’t deep, or any legitimate cause for concern. Still, Cullen paled when he noticed the thin rivulets of blood seeping through Max's fingers, trickling down his wrist and soaking into his sleeve.

“I’m _so_ sorry. Maker’s mercy I’m such a—I didn’t mean to—”

Max patted Cullen’s arm. “’s okay. ’m… _sure_ the box ‘nd I ‘ad it ‘oming.” He continued clutching his jaw, words garbled as he struggled to speak without moving it.

Cullen led him behind the desk, muttering half-frantic apologies. Max went willingly. Not really because he felt he _needed_ to sit. More to give the poor sod something to do _._

“Keep pressure on it. I’ve got supplies upstairs.” Cullen handed Max a strip of cloth he’d torn from his own shirt, pushing him down into the chair by both shoulders. “Maker _,_ what have I _done?”_

Cullen didn’t look well. His face was pale and sweaty, gait stiff as he spun around. He staggered before he could get far, catching himself on the edge of the desk with an audible groan.

Max’s teeth, upon gentle prodding, were all present and accounted for, which was really all he could ask. Even if his jaw _did_ feel like a total bruise. He stood up, moving his hand away from his face long enough to press the cloth to it.

Max touched Cullen’s arm. It hurt to speak normally, but he managed. “Are you all right?”

“I…yes.” Cullen sighed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Let me look at you. How badly are you bleeding?”

Max let Cullen coax his hand away to inspect his cheek. Prod his jaw.

“Nothing feels broken, and the cuts aren’t bad,” Cullen pronounced when he was done. He planted both hands on the desk, bowing his head. “I’m _so_ sorry. I will of course, submit to whatever punishment you deem fit.”

Max blinked. “’Punishment?’”’

Cullen’s face was grim—his jaw, set. “Might I suggest fifty lashes, to start?”

There was another pause of a good ten seconds, in which Max hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Then, it was his turn to pale.

“ _Whoa,_ whoa, whoa, now hold on—”

Cullen‘s voice was hard, his eyes like flints. “I assaulted my commanding officer.”

“By accident! After he barged into your office unannounced to be a terrible busy-body.” Max winced, readjusting his grip on his face. “I’m not going to _punish_ you, are you crazy?”

Cullen blinked. After what must have been a solid minute of Max gazing back at him in horror, he finally cracked a smile. Scoffed.

“Forgive me. My last superior was Knight-Commander Meredith. I’m quite a bit more used to a… _heavier_ hand.”

Max grimaced. “Tough act to follow.”

“Still, I…” Cullen appeared far too restless to sit. He shifted his weight, avoiding Max’s eyes. “I’m _so_ sorry…”

“Cullen _,”_ Max breathed, exasperated. He patted his arm again. “It's a _bruise_ , not a beheading. I’ll survive.”

A laugh. Small, strangled, but still there.

“I’m not here as your Inquisitor, I’m here as a friend.” Max regarded him carefully, cradling his jaw with a wince. “Please, if you need to talk…”

Cullen gazed back at him. There was pain in his eyes. Pain, with an edge of madness. He held Max’s gaze for a moment. Came to a decision as he began to pace.

“You asked what happened to Ferelden’s Circle. It was taken over by abominations. The templars—my _friends—_ were slaughtered.”

Max had heard many varying theories on what happened in Ferelden’s circle tower during the Fifth Blight. Everyone knew it had fallen, and that the Hero of Ferelden managed to save it from complete annihilation.

But the happenings within? The underlying cause? Anyone’s guess was as good as his. And while he and Cullen were certainly friendly enough, there seemed to be a part of himself the commander always kept separate. Or, kept separate from Max up to now, which he supposed was fair. They hadn’t known each other long.

“I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I…” Cullen scoffed. He paced toward the window, gazing out of it with scorn. “How can you be the same person after that?”

Max’s heart clenched.

Cullen remained visibly agitated.

“Still, I wanted to serve. They sent me to _Kirkwall._ I trusted my Knight Commander, and for what, hmm? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets…” He turned to Max, amber eyes blazing. “Can’t you see why I want _nothing_ to do with that life?”

“Of course, I can…” Max’s reply was soft. Kind. “I…”

“Don’t! You should be questioning what I’ve done.” Max may as well not have been there at all, consumed as Cullen was inside the labyrinth of his own troubled mind. He threaded his fingers through his hair. “I thought this would be better. That I would regain some control over my life, but…these thoughts won’t leave me. And now? They’re putting everything we’ve built at risk.”

“Cullen…”

The Commander began to pace. “How many lives depend on our success? I _swore_ myself to this cause! I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry! I should be taking it!” He turned, striking the bookshelf in front of him. Several tomes tumbled from the shelves, with a clattering thunk. “I should be taking it.”

Max let the silence drag for a long moment until he finally spoke.

“Is that what you want?”

Cullen scoffed, bitter. “It doesn’t _matter_ what I want.”

“Is that what _you_ want?” 

A pause. “…no.”

“You’re just going to give up?” His tone was uncompromising. “Slip that lyrium leash back on?”

“No!” Cullen shouted, his face a mask of uncharacteristic rage. He seemed to remember himself. Reigned his temper in, with a shaking breath. “No. But…”

“You give enough, Cullen. I’m not asking you for more.” Max stood over his shoulder. “The Inquisition can be your chance to start over. If you want it to be.”

Cullen sighed heavily, eyes tired and dark. “I don't know if that's possible.”

“It is.” Max reached out, gripped his shoulder. “You can do this.”

Cullen met his eyes—Max’s determined, his resigned—and seemed to deflate. Sighed heavily. “I…”

Max would have to try another tactic.

Cullen responded to command. He could give that to him.

“No lyrium. That’s an order. Do you need it in writing, Commander?”

Cullen’s back straightened. Steel entered his expression. “ _No,_ Inquisitor.”

“Good.” Max smiled. “Now that we’ve decided I’m not hanging you for treason today, are we done here? My _face_ really fucking hurts, and there’s a block of ice somewhere with my name on it.”

Cullen blinked. Took in Max’s deadpan expression. Blinked again.

Then he laughed, more than a little hysterically, and sent a very curious messenger off to fetch Max a whole bucket of the stuff.

Once Cullen had seen to Max’s wounds—upon his own insistence—they had a rematch of their last chess game.

Max won. He was a good ninety percent sure Cullen let him, but he seemed less burdened than Max had seen him in weeks. For him, that was the real victory.

They didn’t speak of Inquisition business, or lyrium, for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next day, as it happened, Max had to speak at a political function. For hours.

It was _awful._

He got more than a few sideways glances from gentry and servant alike. The bruises on his face looked worse than they legitimately were, having transformed into several ugly shades of black and purple, spreading from his jaw to his cheekbone overnight.

Max, of course, managed admirably. This was far from the first time he’d functioned as Inquisitor while wounded and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But his jaw ached abominably by the time the evening was spent. After hours of mingling and his speech towards the end, he was more than ready to crawl under a rock and _die._

Max just wanted to slink up the stairs and disappear beneath a mountain of bubbles in a marble bath for the rest of the evening, but he still had a war table meeting to attend before that dream could come true. He arrived just after the others and skulked over to his customary spot in front of the map, sinking into a chair his older brother nudged toward him, with a groan that was equal parts relief and disgust.

“That bad, huh?” Tobias quipped from beside him.

“Leave me alone to die,” Max whined, cradling his throbbing jaw. “I will never speak _again.”_

Josephine, who’d spent the whole night dodging questions about the state of the Inquisitor’s face, looked every bit as exhausted as Max and then some. No amount of make-up on the planet would have been able to mask the damage, so they’d opted not to even try.

Max could only imagine the rumors floating around Skyhold, up to and including his ‘boyfriend,’ beating him in a fit of rage. Which, anyone acquainted with the Iron Bull— _or_ Max, for that matter—knew to be utterly ridiculous. Rope burns around his wrists were one thing—this _entirely_ another.

Let them talk. Those in the know were aware of what had transpired.

At Cullen’s insistence, of course.

Cullen, as it were, arrived at the war table that night an unheard of ten minutes late, carrying a bundle of cloth he handed to Max with a sheepish grimace.

He was delighted to discover it was _ice._

“Oh, you’re my _favorite,”_ he moaned, pressing it to his jaw. “Oh, Maker.”

“Should we leave you two alone?” Cassandra muttered, deadpan, regarding Max and his ice pack with a raised eyebrow, and a subtly upturned lip.

“Yes. We’re happy together.”

Leliana smirked knowingly from the other side of the table. “I shall inform the Iron Bull he has been handily replaced.”

“He’s welcome to join, but this is a match made in heaven. Nothing can tear us apart, my darling. Not now,” Max quipped. “All I need is to conjure up a marble bath in the next hour, and this day won’t be a complete bust.”

Cullen marked something off the itinerary he carried on his clipboard, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Nonchalant as his manner was—his voice, gruff—Max knew he wasn’t imagining the color rising in his cheeks. “Already done.”

Max blinked. “…what, really?”

“It’ll be waiting for you once we’re finished here.”

Max stared. Waited for Cullen to glance up at him. Stared some more.

“I think I love you.”

“Is _that_ what it takes to procure a hot bath around here?” Tobias snorted. “Hit me next.”

Cullen—wonder of wonders— _rolled_ his eyes.

Josephine pursed her lips. “I’ll admit, the idea… _does_ have some appeal.”

“I hate all of you.” Cullen’s voice was stern—mockingly so. Joking as their manner was, it was painfully gentle. Understanding. They knew how hard their illustrious commander had worked to get to where he was. How much he struggled.

That didn’t mean they were above a little good-natured teasing. To his benefit, of course. They knew what their taciturn commander needed. How to be there for each other.

_All_ the best families did.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm always happy to hear what you thought, even if it's just to say that you liked it. Or, didn't like, for that matter <3


End file.
